NailGun tapes his ribs in dim light, alone, because the kid he’s working with already saw him puke and doesn’t need to see it again. Forcing himself to barf is usually a fun party trick, but this time he drank too much the night before and it just happened. All hangovers are untimely, but a noon belltime is a special cruelty. Great Lakes Wrestling never starts on time, but there isn’t enough time in the world for a man who lives at midnight.

The door doesn’t open all the way – folding tables and chairs stacked behind it. Rex Wade, the promoter, shoves through with his shoulder. He stands in the gap, silhouetted against the hallway light. 

“Hey Nail, are you okay?” Rex waits for a second. No response. “Are you gonna go over your match with the kid or what?”

“We’re calling it in the ring.”

“It’s his third fucking match.”

NailGun growls. “You always book me against these kids right outta wrestling school.”

Rex holds a bewildered stare. 

This is only NailGun’s second appearance in Great Lakes Wrestling. The first time saw his original opponent, Midwest deathmatch mainstay Duke Malone, get arrested the night before. Malone wasn’t released from jail until Monday morning.

NailGun beat the brakes off the replacement – the only one available in the area willing to work with him – and broke a laptop on their head in a crowd brawl. The laptop was owned by a lady working the merch table – the wife of Billy Hawkins, a local star. 

Hawkins wanted to cuss him out when they got to the back. Not just for the laptop, but because NailGun got moved to the opener and wrecked the building anyway – making everything else after feel like an appetizer. Rex and a few of the workers corralled Hawkins away from the curtain before NailGun returned. 

“He would’ve been the main event tonight,” Rex told Hawkins, “and it could’ve been with you if—”

Hawkins pushed everyone off him. “Stop booking unsafe assholes, Rex!”

Hawkins had his match that night and was done with GLW. The company lost a top guy.

Rex wouldn’t ask NailGun back if he didn’t draw – the worst people in the world, sure, but their money was better than nothing.

Today was supposed to be the long-awaited match against Duke Malone, whose car broke down this morning. Some transmission thing. He’s not making the show.

Yet it’s NailGun who Rex could strangle right now. “He doesn’t know or care about being booked against Duke Malone – twice,” Rex thinks to himself. “It’s just the next match and the next bottle with this guy, isn’t it?” Slouched posture and labored taping – it’s like he’s looking at a ghost who doesn’t even know they’re dead.

Rex looks over his shoulder and sees Tommy “Timebomb” Harper walking down the hallway, already in his gear. The kid with two matches under his belt. And – unless Duke Malone discovers teleportation – the only one willing to work with him on this show. 

Rex steps out of the doorway, letting it close behind him. He doesn’t look at Timebomb when he speaks. “You ready?”

Timebomb nods. Too fast.

“He’s in a mood,” Rex says, quiet enough that it doesn’t carry through the door. “Don’t take anything personal.” He claps Timebomb on the shoulder – too hard. He doesn’t know what else to do. “Just get through it.”

Rex leaves Timebomb alone in front of the door. Timebomb trained with NailGun’s previous GLW opponent and hasn’t heard from them since. The experience might have been bad enough to make them quit wrestling. He doesn’t want that to be him too. His hand rests on the door handle for a moment, long enough for him to notice his palm sweating. 

Timebomb enters, hiding his nerves with a calm facade. Too calm, apparently. 

NailGun grits his teeth. “Ever hearda knocking, faggot?”

Timebomb freezes, taken aback by the casual cruelty and the outdated slur. Some local guy recently got cancelled for using such a word, but that was on a screen – solved through keyboard clacks and mouse clicks. In this dim room that reeks sourly of alcohol sweat, there’s no statements or apology tours. NailGun hasn’t even looked at him. Timebomb tries to look ready, not knowing he’s already been buried in NailGun’s mind.

NailGun has seen the same kid a hundred times in a hundred different locker rooms. Too young, too thin, too eager. Too doomed. He watches Timebomb from the corner of his eye as he reaches into his bag. He can already feel the shape of the match – how long he’ll stretch it, how many liberties he’ll take, where the crowd will pop, where the kid will start to fade for real. He’s not planning it, but just knows – the way one knows the weight of a hammer before they pick it up. 

“What should we do in our match, Mr. NailGun?”

NailGun pauses, his eyes widening. He lets out a mean, entertained howl. “‘Mr. NailGun?!’” He leans forward in his chair and finally looks at Timebomb – a piercing stare. “‘Mr. NailGun?’ Are you fucking serious?”

Timebomb nervously looks away to his left and sees the glimmer of a closed switchblade in NailGun’s bag. He clenches his teeth, breathing through his nose.

“Hey,” NailGun snaps his fingers. “You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you.” Timebomb looks at him. “What’s your fucking gimmick?”

Timebomb goes blank for a second. “I just… I’m crazy. I go off like a timebomb.”

NailGun scoffs. “Yeah, well, here’s the deal. The sick fucks paid to see me and they’re gonna wanna see me kick your fucking ass. They’re building me up to something and they’re feeding you to me. Understand?” 

Timebomb nods, even though it goes against everything he’s heard. NailGun was brought here to bleed with Duke Malone, not squash rookies. Nobody would “build him up” to anything because you can’t trust NailGun to show up in one piece. Also, most of NailGun’s appeal comes from what he’s willing to let others do to him, how high he’s willing to fall, and being generally abhorrent with no place in polite society. Timebomb can’t think of any NailGun squash matches that people liked. It’s like watching a man cum in their own mouth. 

NailGun sighs. “Here’s what we’re gonna do…”

=========================
“Did you hear Duke’s car broke down?”
“That’s his second no-show! Bullshit!”
“He’s scared of NailGun. Everyone knows it.”
“He’s not scared of NailGun. He’s scared for him. Duke is everything great about deathmatch. Thoughtful, careful. He’s an artist.”
“So he’s exactly what NailGun needs.”
“For sure. Duke looks out for you. He’s a solid guy.”
“Rex must be losing his mind.”
“Yeah, he was making calls and asking around the locker room. The other deathmatch guys are out of town. The guys here don’t wanna get hurt or they asked for more money. So they found another greenhorn who doesn’t know any better.”
“That kid’s gonna die. Just like the last one.”
“Yeah, but Rex doesn’t give a fuck. Just wants a body so the NailGun fans don’t ask for refunds.”
=========================

It’s been a long day for Rex…

The crowd’s reaction was a low, collective groan with a pocket of hostility when the ring announcer broke the news about Duke Malone. Again. Rex couldn’t bear to stand at the curtain for that, hearing the sound of people who drove an hour to see something specific and get told they have to settle for something else. Again.

It’s not the usual GLW crowd – families with kids and locals who just want to see a simple wrestling show at the VFW. Most of them came to see NailGun and Duke Malone bleed together. While they are disappointed, they’re still here. And that’s actually starting to worry Rex.

The undercard has been fine, but they came for the trainwreck. This time Rex made sure it would happen at the very end, even with a greenhorn.

Rex stands at the curtain and adjusts it slightly. He can see the entryway – a gap between rows of chairs. There’s the ring and a canvas with duct tape patching the center. He can hear chatter and chants that start and fizzle. Shouts of “fuck Malone” and “this show sucks!” All he can do is shake his head and turn away.

He sees Timebomb approaching the curtain. The kid’s already bouncing on his heels, slapping his own face, muttering under his breath. He wears tattered black cargo pants with silver tape on the shins, like he’s trying to look dangerous but doesn’t quite know how. His chest is bare, pale, and thin in a way that makes you worried about his ribs. A chain hangs off his neck – something one finds at a Halloween store. It’s not convincing. But the look in his eyes? That’s convincing. He’s gone – visions of heroic death in some battle daydreamed since childhood. He looks at Rex and grins – too wide, too fast. “Let’s fucking go!”

Rex doesn’t know what the hell has gotten into him, stepping aside. Timebomb pushes through the curtain as City Morgue’s “SHINNERS13” blares from the speakers.

The show has overrun and the crowd is indifferent, but Timebomb doesn’t seem to know… or maybe he does, but has decided he will make them care. Rex can’t tell, but knows this kid is either going to get himself killed or rise to a higher level.

Rex feels the storm approaching behind him. NailGun emerges from the hallway – shirtless, torso wrapped in white tape that’s already peeling at the edges. His scarred, pale chest tells more tales than any tattoo ever could. His beard is thick and unkempt from neglect. His hair hangs past his shoulders, matted and dark. Those dark eyes are brimming with murderous intent.

NailGun doesn’t look at Rex, who knows to get out of the way. He stops at the curtain for the opening cowbell in GG Allin’s “Violence Now.” The crowd explodes and instantly chants his name. He waits for the lyrics to kick in shortly after, then steps out like a wolf wandering into a dog show, moving in on a stranded poodle. He doesn’t belong here in GLW. He doesn’t belong anywhere. But he’s here, the crowd is screaming, and Rex can feel a sinister cloud roll over the VFW. 

NailGun stops in the aisle halfway. He swiftly leans over the rail, one hand gripping the top with a fist cocked back, getting a fan to back away. He reaches over, snatches a chair, folds it in one motion, and sprints to the ring.

The ring announcer didn’t call it a deathmatch. Just like for NailGun’s previous appearance, Rex didn’t want to burn his deathmatch billing on a guy with two matches, but knew fans would feel cheated if he didn’t let NailGun be NailGun. He split the difference and told the referee to let things slide. Or he at least told the referee in the first match. At this moment, Rex realizes this is a different referee. His usual referee, 20-year veteran Rob Stanton, is on an anniversary vacation this weekend. This referee, a 20-year-old who weighs 90 pounds in acne, started working shows last month.

“Oh shit,” Rex whispers to himself.

NailGun slides under the ropes and Timebomb rears back with an Axe Handle so telegraphed it has a delivery date. Timebomb’s midsection is left wide open for NailGun to drive the backrest into his ribs, then leaves his back open for a chair shot.

The referee, who looks like a kid in their dad’s shirt, waves their arms and points at NailGun, accosting him with a cracking voice. NailGun pulls back the chair with big steps, eyes locked. The ref doesn’t wait and rolls out, nearly hurting themselves in their rush, wishing he did more before this match than ask who wins.  

NailGun doesn’t take his eyes off the referee, loading to throw the chair. “Ring the fucking bell! You dumb fuck! Stupid mother fucker! Ring the fucking bell!”

The referee frantically motions to the ring announcer, who officially sounds the start of the match with quick, panicked dings. 

NailGun whips back around to Timebomb and chucks the chair. The kid doesn’t flinch or even try to put their hands up, taking the steel flush in the face. It’s bravery of a stupid kind. A guttural roar rolls through the VFW. Some fans are on their feet, chanting NailGun’s name.

“That should be the finish,” Rex thinks after watching Timebomb drop like a lead balloon. “What the fuck do you need to do after that?!”

NailGun shoves Timebomb into the nearest corner, dragging out a corner-to-corner beatdown, milking Knife-Edge Chops for “wooo’s” that become fewer and quieter as they go along.

“You’re doing great,” NailGun says after one of the chops – quiet enough for only Timebomb to hear. “Head up.”

When they get back to the corner where they started, NailGun stomps a mud hole in Timebomb, sinks him to the canvas, then kicks him under the ropes and off the apron. He punctuates this dominance with arms wide, circling the ring as he stares down the front row. It’s unclear if he wants them to cheer, boo, or if NailGun is challenging them to an actual fight. Most fans are silently confused.

NailGun reaches through the ropes towards the ring announcer. “Gimme a fucking microphone!”

The ring announcer, a balding 20-something-year-old man in a too-tight velvet jacket from a junk store, freezes like a deer in headlights. He looks to the curtain, eyes wide with genuine fear, and sees Rex peeking back. Rex repeatedly does quick, dismissive flat-hand “cut it” gestures.

Rex tries to beam his thought: “Do not give him that fucking mic.”

NailGun climbs out of the ring and snatches it, pie-facing the poor ring announcer out of their chair. They fall back and bang their head on the rail. Fans don’t know whether to cheer or gasp – a confused hybrid sound that hangs like static. There’s a few nervous laughs in the back – the ones who can’t see the ring announcer clutching the back of their head.

NailGun looks at the curtain. “If anybody cuts this mic, I’m killing everyone in this fucking building! I don’t give a fuck!”

Rex looks at Timebomb selling on the floor. “Did he fucking know this would happen?”

NailGun continues, the crowd silent. Everyone believes him. “The last time I was here, I was supposed to fight Duke Malone. That fucking bitch is so scared of me that he got arrested. He got locked up just so he didn’t have to fight me. Today he couldn’t make it again. Said his fucking car broke down.” Fans interrupt with heckles, but NailGun shouts through them. “Get a fucking Uber you pussy!”

Laughter ripples through silence, both nervous and genuine. A few fans even clap. Tension cracks just enough for them to remember this is still a wrestling show. NailGun lets them have this moment, then brings the mic back up.

“He’s not the only one scared of me around here! What’s that guy’s name – Billy Hawkins? Does that sound right?”

Rex should stop this now, but his feet have sunk into the floor.

NailGun continues. “He could have taken Duke’s place and fought me in the main event! But he quit the fucking company instead! Fucking crying cuz I broke that bitch’s laptop but never said shit to me face-to-face like a man! Cuz he’s not a man! His bitch looks like a fucking man! Maybe he’s the wife and she’s the husband?!”

No crowd laughter, noise, anything. A few shift uncomfortably. Someone yells, “That’s fucked up!” It gets swallowed by silence. The tension hardens. Fans came to see violence. Instead, NailGun is tearing apart someone who doesn’t want anything to do with GLW and their non-performer wife. There’s no match being sold here. 

NailGun feels the shift, but it feeds him. He grins wide and ugly, stepping around a ring post to peer down at Timebomb, examining like he’s roadkill. The referee has been on their knees, talking to Timebomb through NailGun’s promo, making sure they’re still with him. 

“This little shit’s got two matches under his belt.” NailGun approaches. “The only guy here who wanted to get in the ring with me. Real fucking cute. I’m gonna make him suck my fucking dick!”

A few fans gasp. Someone near the back lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. A woman in the front row shakes her head and looks away. Most are frozen, waiting to see how he actually follows through on a threat so vulgar. 

The referee scrambles away, allowing NailGun to wrap the microphone cord around Timebomb’s throat. Rex’s first thought is for the cord, thinking of its cost as NailGun makes an honest effort to pull it through their neck. Concern for Timebomb himself follows. 

NailGun drags Timebomb onto the apron, hammering him with closed fists while telling him to “stay” through gritted teeth – like commanding a dog. The blows are a mix of working punches and stiff shots that Timebomb weathers, hoping NailGun moves to their planned spot should the next blow knock out a tooth.

NailGun climbs onto the apron and scans the crowd, stepping toward a corner. He pauses, locks eyes with a few fans in the front row, then grabs his crotch and thrusts his hips in their direction, jerking his dick through those black denim cutoffs. Many fans recoil. One guy stands up, fists clenched in revelry, before his embarrassed friends pull him back down. NailGun grins and ascends to the top rope, back facing Timebomb on the apron. 

NailGun struggles with balance on the top rope – not from nerves, but ability. His knees buckle slightly as he tries to stand. The referee, now in the ring, clocks the distance between him and Timebomb – it’s not favorable. Timebomb notices too, worried that NailGun’s knee is about to smash into his face.

NailGun steadies himself. He defiantly grins, raising middle fingers to the world before launching himself backward. NailGun is known for Moonsaults that are the envy of no gymnast. A heavy, desperate fling of his body – not so much soaring as it is falling recklessly into the abyss. 

NailGun only flips halfway, landing short of Timebomb, slamming face-first into the apron. Crowd reactions are equal parts shock, horror, and dark delight wrapped in an “ooooh!”

He tumbles to the floor like a puppet cut from strings, limbs folding beneath him in a heap of bad decisions. His face is already swelling, blood leaking from his nose, mouth slack, eyes half-open and seeing nothing. 

Timebomb freezes on the apron, staring down at the wreckage, his chest heaving. He didn’t move an inch – NailGun just missed him by a foot or three. Now the kid lays there, the match’s momentum seemingly in his hands, looking at the referee as if to ask, “What now?”

The referee helplessly shrugs. He looks at Timebomb, then at NailGun’s motionless body, then the ring announcer. None of them have an answer.

So he begins a ten count.

Rex snaps out of frozen dread. “Check him,” he says to himself before yelling from behind the curtain. “Check him, ref! You fucking moron!” He catches the attention of fans by the curtain, a couple of them looking back at him. Rex screams louder, “Ref! Check Nail, ref!”

The referee hesitates at four, looking between NailGun’s body and the curtain. Even he knows this isn’t selling. He drops the count and rolls out of the ring, looking to stir NailGun with a hand on their shoulder. “Hey. Hey, you okay?”

NailGun doesn’t stir. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed. The referee calls for the bell. The match is over.

Unsettling silence fights against a smattering of boos. The booing grows, repulsive and directionless. They wanted a trainwreck. They got one. Now they don’t know what else to do because it’s not entirely what they wanted.

The ref signals an “X” to the back. 

There isn’t a physician on hand. Rex cut corners, saved a few dollars, and figured nothing too serious would happen. There was a local chiropractor who got free tickets and was their guy who knew first aid for many years, but he recently retired to Arizona. 

Rex runs to the dressing room, breathless at the doorway, eyes darting from face-to-face – a dozen wrestlers in various states of undress. Some still in their gear, some already half-changed, and all of them looking back with blank, waiting expressions.

Rex scratches the back of his neck. “Does anybody know first aid?”

Silence.

Someone coughs. 

=========================
“I rode with him once.”
“Was he always like this?”
“Nah…”
“What changed?”
“Nothing. He just stopped pretending.”
“Doesn’t he have a daughter?”
“Probably.”
“I’m not working him.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
“We all mean it.”
“Rex is gonna have to pay for this.”
“Rex ain’t paying for shit.”
“Someone should call his people.”
“He doesn’t have people.”
“Well, I’m out. Do you wanna go to Applebee’s?”
“Yeah, let’s get dinner.”
=========================

Ed sits on the edge of the motel bed, one boot on, the other in his hand. His face is a map of the day before – stitches above the eyebrow, a splint across his nose, and a deep purple bruise blooming around his eye socket that’s already yellowing at the edges. The room smells like old carpet and antiseptic. His bag is open on the other bed, half-packed.

He spent four hours in the ER yesterday. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation – concussion, possible orbital fracture, facial trauma – but he signed himself out against medical advice. Ed told them he didn’t have insurance, which was true. They told him to follow up with a specialist. Ed said he would, which was a lie. He walked out with a prescription for painkillers he couldn’t afford to fill and a discharge sheet he already lost somewhere between the hospital and motel.

The bill will come later. He will ignore it.

Ed pulls on his boot, laces it slow, and looks around the room. There’s a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand, a crumpled wrapper from a gas station sandwich, and the switchblade. He picks up the switchblade, weighs it in his hand, then tucks it into his waistband.

Ed isn’t sure where he’s going next…

---

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